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THE    LITTLE 
POEM   BOOK 


BY   SARAH    SIMONS   REESE 


COPYRIGHT  1920 
LOS     ANGELES,     CALIFORNIA 


GIFT 


THE  LITTLE  POEM  BOOK 


This  little  volume  was  born  on  one  of  the  quiet 
canon  streets  in  Los  Angeles,  California,  some  time 
during  the  great  world  war.  It  was  a  modest  scrap- 
book  which  left  my  home  each  week,  borne  by  the 
loving  hands  of  some  child. 

Only  one  poem  was  promised  each  week,  and 
at  the  end  of  that  time  another  child  returned  for 
a  new  poem. 

Each  day  it  found  its  way  into  a  different  home 
on  the  street,  and  the  children  who  were  unable  to 
read,  gathered  in  small  groups  on  the  green  lawns, 
while  an  older  child  read  to  them.  Although  so 
thoroughly  read  and  thumbed,  the  little  scrapbook 
never  came  home  soiled  or  torn. 

When  it  became  necssary  to  christen  the  book 
and  put  on  a  printed  gown,  I  discovered  that  I 
had  neglected  to  name  this  infant,  and  for  a  long 
time  I  could  think  of  nothing  suitable.  At  last,  it 
dawned  on  me  to  call  it  The  Little  Poem  Book,  for 
that  was  the  name  that  Betty  and  the  other  children 
on  the  street  loved  to  call  it. 

There  are  no  make-believes  in  The  Little  Poem 
Book;  the  children,  the  flowers,  the  birds  and  ani- 
mals are  those  that  I  have  known  and  loved. 

This  book  in  its  modest  slip  is  not  for  these  chil- 
dren alone,  but  for  all  children,  whatever  race,  color 
or  creed.  Some  day  this  babe  may  appear  in  a 
finer  gown  and  cap,  but  until  it  has  cut  all  of  it« 
teeth  and  been  weaned,  it  will  wear  this  simple 
gown,  and  be  known  as  The  Little  Poem  Book. 

By  the  author: 

SARAH  SIMONS  REESE. 

418787 


GRIFFITH  PARK 


Oh !  come  with  me  to  this  woodland  spot, 
For  the  morn  dawns  bright  and  fair; 

The  purple  larkspurs  crown  the  hills, 
And  sweet  wild  roses  scent  the  air. 

The  yellow  mustard  lines  the  road, 
And  gleams  as  a  sea  of  gold; 

I  love  to  lie  'neath  the  shady  oaks, 
And  their  giant  arms  behold. 

I  love  to  drink  from  the  tiny  spring, 
And  climb  each  wild,  steep  hill; 

Where  the  waxen  yucca  rears  its  head 
Like  a  sentinel,  grim  and  still. 

The  river  winds  like  a  silken  thread 
Mid  banks  of  shimmering  green; 

The  brushwood  hangs  with  matted  vines, 
Where  the  coyotes  crouch  unseen. 

The  sun  has  fled,  the  primrose  wakes, 
And  her  petals  of  silk  unfold; 

The  feathery  clouds  are  changing  fast 
From  swansdown  into  gold. 

I  must  away,  the  night  grows  chill, 
And  draws  down  her  misty  veil; 

From  sombre  depths  of  purple  steeps 
Comes  the  call  of  the  mountain  quail. 


A  CALIFORNIA  THRUSH 


I  have  the  dearest  little  friend 

Who  comes  to  visit  me; 
If  you  should  care  to  know  her  name, 

Why,  it  is  Mrs.  Curiosity. 

I  have  known  her  now  about  four  years, 

A  modest  thrush  is  she; 
In  spring  her  suit  is  trig  and  brown 

And  stylish  as  can  be. 

She  has  a  comfy  little  perch 

Beside  the  rosebush,  where 
She  looks  across  into  my  room 

When  I  dress  or  comb  my  hair. 

Although  so  busy  with  her  young, 
She  looks  me  through  and  through; 

Her  solemn  eyes  just  seem  to  say, 
"What  kind  of  nest  have  you?" 

She  feeds  them  bugs  and  squirmy  things; 

It's  plain  as  plain  can  be, 
This  food  to  them  tastes  just  as  fine 

As  cakes  and  tarts  to  me. 

So  when  the  babes  are  old  enough 
She  brings  them  in  great  glee; 

They  all  sit  on  the  comfy  perch 
Where  I  can  plainly  see. 


A  CALIFORNIA  THRUSH 

(Continued) 

And  when  the  autumn  days  have  come, 

The  hillsides  all  are  brown; 
My  friend  then  comes  to  visit  me 

In  such  a  ragged  gown. 

Her  feathers  are  so  thin  and  plain, 

But  I  excuse  my  friend; 
If  I  were  feeding  tiny  birds, 

Would  I  have  time  to  mend? 

But  later  on,  she  comes  again, 

The  children  all  are  there; 
They  sit  upon  the  comfy  perch 

With  such  a  curious  stare. 

Her  coat  is,  oh!  so  soft  and  new, — 

A  happy  thrush  is  she; 
She  takes  the  children  with  her  now 

Out  in  good  society. 


THE  HUMMING  BIRD 

An  autumn  day  among  the  hills, 

The  sunshine's  golden  glow; 
I  hear  the  bluebird's  lusty  scream 

In  the  elder-bush  below. 
The  salvia  by  my  kitchen  door, 

Her  long  green  stems  aflame 
With  scarlet  bugles,  'waits  a  guest, 

But  you  cannot  guess  his  name. 

The  ferns  are  nodding  in  the  breeze, 

The  tree  toad  croaks  his  song, 
The  lizard  looks  as  if  he  hoped 

The  guest  would  not  be  long. 
I  sit  and  watch  in  silence,  too, — 

I  could  not  think  of  gloom; 
I  know  so  well  my  friend  will  come 

When  the  salvias  are  in  bloom. 

The  kitten's  modest  drinking  cup 

Becomes  a  foaming  sea; 
A  splash,  a  dash  of  rainbow  spray — 

What  can  the  matter  be? 
A  coat  of  brown,  a  glint  of  green, 

I  know  without  a  doubt 
It  is  my  friend,  the  humming  bird, — 

He  has  no  fears  to  rout. 


10 


THE  HUMMING  BIRD 

(Continued 

His  table  is  already  spread 

Just  for  the  tiny  guest; 
He  darts  around  the  salvia  bush 

TO  find  what  he  likes  best. 
His  winecups  are  so  rich  and  rare, 

He  sips  from  every  one; 
They  are  the  bugles,  scarlet  red, 

That  shimmer  in  the  sun. 

The  electric  wire  up  above 

Is  such  a  pleasant  swing, 
And  there  he  sits  and  watches  me, 

But  never  tries  to  sing. 
I  hear  the  whir  of  tiny  wings 

At  noon  and  early  dawn ; 
I'm  sure  my  guest  will  stay  until 

The  scarlet  blooms  are  gone. 


11 


SOMEWHERE  IN  CALIFORNIA 

In  canons  deep,  o'er  feathery  ferns, 

Flit  painted  butterflies; 
The  grass  is  strewn  with  blue  and  gold 

And  a  thousand  starry  eyes. 

The  tiny  stream  o'er  smooth  white  stones 

And  clumps  of  water-cress, 
Daily  sings  her  plaintive  songs 

And  only  sings  to  bless. 

The  daylight  wanes,  the  breezes  blow, 
The  poppies  hide  their  gold; 

The  wild  oats  croon  a  lullaby, 
A  secret  sweet  they  hold. 

With  jangling  bells,  the  cows  come  home, 

For  the  day  falls  fast  asleep ; 
The  night  owl  hoots,  and  lean  coyotes 

Skulk  from  the  shadows  deep. 

The  hills  are  clothed  in  purple  mist, 
The  red,  gold  clouds  are  dim; 

Evening  comes  with  a  wealth  of  stars 
To  sing  her  vesper  hymn. 


12 


THE  NEW  MOON 

A  little  moon,  in  the  heavens  high, 

Peeped  over  a  cloudy  wall; 
She  was  so  small,  so  thin  and  white, 

I  feared  lest  she  would  fall. 
A  little  star  played  peekaboo 

As  the  filmy  clouds  went  by; 
The  little  moon  was  so  very  new, 

She  was  glad  for  a  friendly  eye. 

The  other  stars  came  out  at  last 

And  winked  at  her  so  bold, 
The  little  moon  turned  all  at  once 

From  silver  into  gold. 
When  last  I  saw  the  little  moon, 

The  earth  was  cold  and  chill; 
And  blushing  red,  she  hurried  down 

And  hid  behind  the  hill. 


NEMOPHILA 

Little  flowers,  so  rare  and  sweet, 
Hidden  in  some  wild  retreat; 
I  know  a  child  whose  eyes  of  blue 
Always  make  me  think  of  you. 

Your  Latin  name  is  very  dear, 
So  don't  feel  hurt  or  think  it  queer 
If  I  should  change  your  name  so  wise 
And  fondly  call  you  Betty-eyes. 


13 


THE  BEAN  BLOWERS 

A  knock  at  my  door.      Oh,  who  can  it  be? 
I  open  it  wide,  so  curious  to  see, 
But  I  find  the  small  boy  that  is  smiling  at  me, 
No  other  than  little  Bobby. 

His  clear  blue  eyes  are  shining  bright, 
His  face  fairly  glows  with  radiant  light. 
These  words  he  lisps  with  all  his  might, 

"Mrs.  Weese,  may  I  have  a  bean  blower?'* 

This  thought  profound  I  cannot  grasp, 

Wondering  still  what  is  to  be  my  task; 

I  think  a  long  while,  then  I  simply  ask, 

"Bobby,  what  is  a  bean  blower?*' 

He  looked  amazed,  and  laughed  with  glee, 
And  said,  "Mrs.  Weese,  why,  can't  you  see? 
Bean  blowers  grow  on  the  bean  blower  tree." 
Yet  I  failed  to  understand. 

He  said,  "I  know  just  where  one  grows; 
Come  with  me,"  then  he  smiles  and  shows 
A  tree  in  my  yard,  right  under  my  nose, 
The  wonderful,  famous  bean  blower. 

An  Aralia  Japonica,  standing  near  by, 
With  fan-shaped  leaves  turned  to  the  sky. 
I  am  puzzled  still  and  wonder  why 
It  should  be  called  a  bean  blower. 

—Continued 


14 


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15 


THE  BEAN  BLOWER 

(Continued) 

Little  Bobby  seemed  to  guess  my  plight. 
In  lisping  words,  with  all  his  might, 
He  tried  to  put  my  thoughts  aright, 
Just  how  to  make  a  bean  blower. 

"We  boys  cut  off  the  big  leaf,  just  so. 
The  stalk  is  hollow,  and  then,  you  know, 
We  put  in  the  beans,  and  blow  and  blow 
The  beans  all  out  of  the  blower." 

I  gave  him  a  leaf;  he  left  without  noise. 
I  was  able  to  keep  my  mental  poise, 
For  in  a  short  time  I  was  besieged  by  boys 
Begging  for  just  one  bean  blower. 

I  cut  each  a  leaf  and,  without  any  aid, 
I  sent  them  away,  a  soldier  brigade; 
Down  the  street  they  marched,  a  merry  parade 
Of  joyous,  happy  bean  blowers. 

I  am  wiser  now,  for  can't  you  see, 
Though  the  plant  looked  slim  as  a  cocoanut  tree, 
I  had  to  be  taught  by  a  baby  of  three 
Just  how  to  make  a  bean  blower. 


16 


THE  GREEN  PARROT 

Our  parrot  is  such  a  funny  bird, 
Looks  so  glum,  scarcely  says  a  word 

When  grown  folks  come. 
But  you  let  some  children  come  around! 
Then  a  smarter  bird  can  ne'er  be  found 

Than  the  parrot  we  call  Katie. 
She  whistles  long  and  loud  with  glee, 
Says  all  the  words,  it  seems  to  me, 

That  she  has  ever  learned. 
But  when  all  the  children  go  away, 
That  bird  gets  on  her  roost  to  stay 

And  hardly  makes  a  blessed  sound. 


THE  WEST  WIND  AND  THE  OAK 

Little  flirting  West  Wind  comes 
At  noon  most  every  day, 

And  loves  to  tease  the  great  live  oak 
In  a  tantalizing  way. 

She  twists  his  bearded  branches  so, 
But  you  can  see  him  smile, 

For  he  has  known  Miss  West  Wind 
For  a  long,  long  while. 

He  treats  her  in  a  kindly  way 
And  will  not  even  whine, 

But  you  can  tell  he's  smiling, 
For  his  leaves  just  shine. 


17 


WILD  FLOWERS  IN  GRIFFITH  PARK 

Beyond  the  goat-pen  down  the  lane, 
When  I  took  my  morning  stroll, 

I  found  some  dainty  little  folks 
Growing  on  a  grassy  knoll. 

With  colors  of  the  richest  hue, 
Woven  in  great  Nature's  loom, 

They're  finer  than  the  velvet  rug 
In  my  mother's  living-room. 

The  yellow  pansies  smile  at  me 
As  they  the  dewdrops  sup; 

The  tiny  cream-cup's  tousled  head 
Looks  as  if  she  had  just  waked  up. 

In  lilac  caps,  the  shooting-stars, 
Like  sentinals,  erect  they  stand 

And  guard  right  well  the  cradleful 
of  baby-blue-eyes  in  their  land. 

These  peaceful  tenants  soon  will  go, 
With  ne'er  a  quarrel  or  regret; 

But  until  springtime  comes  again 
The  grassy  knoll  will  be  "To  Let." 


18 


A  LULLABY 

It  is  lullaby  time  in  the  garden, 
Yet  the  roses  are  still  in  bloom; 

The  pansies,  drooping  their  sleepy  heads, 
Have  no  fear  of  darkness  and  gloom. 

Sister  is  singing  the  good-night  song, 
While  wee  Elsa  smiles  in  her  sleep; 

"God's  thoughts  are  the  angels  that  guard  thee, 
Dear  Baby,"  His  children  He  will  keep. 

A  soft  truant  breeze  from  the  mountains 

Sweeping  in  at  the  open  door, 
Now  takes  a  kiss  from  wee  Sister's  lips, 

And  comes  stealing  back  for  more. 

A  mocking  bird  out  in  the  rose-tree, 
Singing  ever  the  whole  night  long; 

"God's  thoughts  are  the  angels  that  guard  you, 
Sweet  children,**  is  his  good-night  song. 


19 


THE  NEW  UMPIRE 

Wake  up!  wake  up!  you  baseball  team 

That  live  upon  the  Drive. 
A  new  boy  moved  right  in  your  midst, 

He  is  very  much  alive. 

The  stranger  came  last  Sunday  morn, — 

t  was  such  a  grand  surprise; 
The  baseball  boys,  who  were  all  in  bed, 

Never  opened  their  sleepy  eyes. 

Wake  up!  Billy  Bush,  and  Bobby,  too, 
Hugh,  Lester  and  little  Dan; 

I'll  tell  you  now  you'll  be  busy  boys 
If  you  get  ahead  of  this  man. 

So  you  must  practice  every  morn, 

A  far  better  game  to  play; 
Make  some  showing,  now  you  know 

Young  Owens  has  come  to  stay. 


JIMMY  SKUNK 
A  Classic  by  Itself 

Little  Jimmy  Skunk  from  Mt.  Washington, 
Such  a  queer  little  trick  was  he; 

He  carried  a  perfume  that  was,  oh,  so  cheap, 
And  smelled  as  loud  as  could  be. 

At  night  when  I  tuned  my  'cello  strings, 

I  heard  such  a  lively  footfall; 
'Twas  only  Jimmy  running,  oh,  so  fast, — 

He  didn't  like  fiddles  at  all. 

He  could  not  have  told  me  in  plainer  words; 

I  shut  up  the  windows,  appalled; 
I  was  glad,  but  when  I  smelled  that  perfume, 

I  knew  Jimmy  Skunk  had  called. 

I  tossed  a  bone  to  a  little  pet  dog; 

He  had  better  at  home,  you  see, 
So  he  left  it  there  for  old  Tabby  cat, — 

Her  babes  were  hungry  and  so  was  she. 

Little  Jimmy  Skunk  from  Mt.  Washington 
Came  down  with  a  mighty  vim; 

He  was  hungry,  too,  and  my  back  yard 
He  thought  just  belonged  to  him. 

Whatever  happened  I  did  not  ask, — 
I  closed  both  the  windows  and  door; 

My  guests  departed,  and  so  did  the  smell, 
So  I  tuned  up  the  'cello  once  more. 


21 


BUTTERBALL 


Just  a  little  cocker  spaniel,  not  a  common  dog  at 
all, 

His  dainty  mistress  calls  him  by  the  name  of  Butter- 
ball. 

When  the  folks  go  in  the  auto,  just  out  to  take  a 
ride, 

Butterball  goes  with  them  and  sits  up  with  great 
pride. 

But  when  they  want  to  leave  him  and  try  to  sneak 

away, 
They  say  to  him  in  solemn  tones,  "Now,  Butterball, 

you  stay/' 
And  in  a  funny  little  heap  he  flops  down  by  the 

door, 
Then  waits  until  they  come  again,  no  matter  what's 

in  store. 

Oh,  yes,  he'll  chase  a  cat  or  hen,  for  that  is  such  a 
boon, 

It  gives  him  some  diversion  through  a  weary  after- 
noon; 

But  there  is  a  joy,  however,  that  none  can  take 
away, — 

It's  when  his  new  friend  Boodles  comes  o'er  to  have 
a  play. 

In  spite  of  length  and  such  short  legs,  then  let  us  all 

agree 
That  Boodles  has  the  kindest  face  that  one  could 

wish  to  see. 
And  so  they  have  the  grandest  time  just  rolling  in 

the  dust; 
A  wholesome  bath  would  do  no  harm,   but  I  can 

hope  and  trust. 


22 


BUTTERBALL 

(Continued) 

For  that  game  is  so  exciting,  it  just  always  seems  to 

me 
A  streak  of  black  and  one  of  brown  is  all  that  I  can 

see. 
For  when  the  dust  is  settled,   I  know  the  game  is 

done; 
Both  dogs  are  so  polite  and  kind,   I  hardly  know 

which  won. 

Then  Boodles,  with  a  loving  glance,  goes  trotting  off 

for  home, 
So  Butterball  just  flops  right  down, — he  does  not 

care  to  roam, 
But  waits  until  his  folks  get  back  and,  as  they  have 

before, 
They  find  a  patient  little  dog  outside  the  kitchen 

door. 


23 


EL  NIDO 


Mt.  Washington,  bathed  in  the  warm  California 
sunshine,  awoke  each  beautiful  spring  morning  to 
find  her  breast  covered  with  the  choicest  gems.  Lu- 
pines, Mariposa  lilies  and  wild  hyacinths,  dipped  in 
diamond  dew,  in  wild  profusion  decorated  the 
flounces  of  her  gown.  Mt.  Washington  was  one  of 
the  fairest  young  daughters  of  Los  Angeles,  and 
one  who  lay  nearest  to  the  mother  heart.  The 
proud  mother  could  hardly  realize  that  this  child 
was  growing  so  fast,  and  that  her  needs  must  be 
met. 

As  a  baby,  she  was  such  a  good  little  thing,  for 
while  the  other  children  romped,  she  sat  in  a  corner 
quietly  sucking  her  thumb,  and  she  never  cried. 
Now,  the  crying  baby  often  seems  to  get  more  atten- 
tion than  the  good  child,  but  this  is  not  really  so, 
for  it  often  happens  that  the  busy  mother,  tiring 
of  the  incessant  noise,  will  sometimes  wait  on  the 
cross  baby  at  once,  but  her  heart  is  not  in  the 
service,  for  she  only  flatters  herself  vainly  that  the 
clamor  will  cease,. 

Mother  Los  Angeles  loved  her  quiet  baby  dearly. 
It  is  true,  she  could  not  always  give  her  fine 
clothes,  but  somehow  the  baby  always  appeared  well 
dressed.  A  cross  baby  seldom  looks  attractive,  no 
matter  how  expensive  its  clothes  may  be. 

Mt.  Washington's  baby  dresses  were  trimmed  to 
the  waist  with  the  sheerest  of  laces.  Sometimes  in 
the  spring  she  wore  a  lovely  frock  of  wild  oats, 
whose  flounces  were  trimmed  with  the  beautiful  wild 
hyacinths  and  owl's  clover.  In  the  summer  she  wore 
a  gay  slip  of  yellow  mustard,  and  later  on  in  the 
autumn,  a  little  brown  and  tan  gown,  for  you  know 
the  warm  sunshine  loved  to  dye  the  green  fringes 
in  these  particular  colors  at  this  time  of  the  year. 
When  the  holidays  came,  there  was  always  waiting 
for  her  a  beautiful  little  red  coat  of  California  holly. 


24 


You  see  the  Heavenly  Father  kept  His  child  well 
dressed,  so  Mother  Los  Angeles  did  not  have  to  fret 
about  where  the  clothes  were  coming  from.  Later 
on,  some  real  estate  men  discovered  this  good  baby, 
so  they  put  a  new  bonnet  on  her  head. 

Now  it  was  a  wonderful  head-dress  and  was 
trimmed  with  beautiful  homes,  but  its  chief  orna- 
ment was  a  big  hotel,  and  the  cream  pompon  on 
the  side  was  a  dear  little  schoolhouse  in  mission 
style.  The  bonnet  strings  did  not  match,  however, 
but  that  did  not  matter,  for  they  were  very  useful 
indeed.  One  string  was  a  long  incline  railway 
where  a  small  car  ran  to  and  fro  from  the  hotel, 
but  the  other  was  a  lovely  oiled  road  winding  around 
the  mountain  to  the  same  place. 

You  see,  good  children  do  not  have  to  scream 
and  cry  in  order  to  be  noticed,  for  goodness  and 
patience  always  bring  a  right  reward.  Happy  school 
children  loved  Mt.  Washington  and  paid  her  many 
visits,  often  carrying  home  great  bunches  of  wild 
flowers  and  holly. 

How  the  little  wild  birds  loved  her!  The  blue- 
birds screamed  as  they  flew  about  in  the  wild  walnut 
trees,  while  the  mocking  birds  sang  sweetly  all  the 
day  and  sometimes  far  into  the  night.  The  linnets 
and  wild  canaries  teetered  on  the  swaying  branches 
of  the  wild  mustard,  and  the  little  lizards  sunned 
themselves  and  were  very  happy. 

As  Mt.  Washington  grew  to  maidenhood,  she 
pinned  lovely  jewels  on  her  bonnet  strings.  These 
jewels  were  the  pretty  homes  where  so  many  happy 
children  lived.  On  one  long  arm  just  above  the 
black  bonnet  string,  she  wore  in  early  spring  a  mag- 
nificent bracelet  of  purple  lupines.  It  was  just  be- 
low this  bracelet,  nestled  snugly  in  the  curve  of  the 
arm,  that  a  tiny  brown  bungalow  was  built. 

The  lady  who  first  lived  there  did  not  like  the 
hills,  as  she  longed  for  a  place  where  there  were 
no  steep  steps  to  climb;  and  thus  it  came  to  pass 
one  day  that  another  lady,  who  loved  the  hills  and 
wild  flowers,  was  looking  for  a  home  and  discovered 
the  little  brown  bungalow  on  the  hillside. 


25 


Every  room  in  the  house,  every  nook  and  closet 
was  just  as  if  she  herself  had  planned  it;  therefore 
it  came  about  that  these  ladies  exchanged  homes 
and  each  one  was  satisfied  and  happy. 

Now  there  was  no  name  written  anywhere,  neither 
on  the  pergola  nor  the  front  porch,  but  to  the  new 
mistress  this  little  home  was  always  known  as  El 
Nido  (the  nest). 

The  zigzag  paths  leading  up  to  it  were  lined  with 
many  flowers,  and  vines  clambered  over  the  terraces 
in  wild  profusion.  A  Cecil  Bruner  rose  covered  the 
porch,  where  the  little  wild  birds  came  each  day  to 
bathe  under  the  drip  of  a  faucet.  All  the  wild 
things  loved  El  Nido,  because  the  little  brown  birds 
were  always  building  their  nests  and  raising  their 
young  there. 

At  exactly  half  past  twelve,  at  noon,  Father  Road- 
runner,  a  bird  of  dignified  bearing,  came  across  the 
black  bonnet  string,  from  the  opposite  hill,  straight 
past  the  bedroom  window  and  went  up  to  the  top 
of  the  amethyst  hill. 

The  little  mistress  of.  El  Nido  was  sitting  there 
sewing,  and  when  not  watching  the  wild  hyacinths 
wave  in  the  long  green  grass,  she  often  looked  out 
and  wondered  what  could  be  the  matter  and  why 
did  Father  Roadrunner  go  to  the  top  of  the  lupine 
hill  at  exactly  that  same  hour  each  day.  When 
three  baby  roadrunners  came  down  from  the  blue 
hill  later  on,  she  knew  the  secret  and  never  ques- 
tioned again.  In  the  rear  of  El  Nido,  close  to  the 
blue  bedroom,  was  built  a  pergola,  and  the  owner 
thatched  the  roof  with  the  leaves  from  the  fan  palm, 
so  that  the  tender  ferns  and  begonias  might  be  shel- 
tered from  the  hot  sun. 

One  day  there  was  a  clatter  among  the  dry  palm 
leaves  and,  the  mistress  hearing  it,  ran  out  just  in 
time  to  see  Mrs.  Brownbird  snipping  long  threads 
to  weave  in  her  nest  in  the  honeysuckle  vine  oppo- 
site the  kitchen  window. 

The  mistress  foolishly  showed  a  dear  friend  the 
new  home,  so  Mrs.  Brownbird  left  off  building  that 
nest  and  moved.  Yet  the  snipping  of  the  palms 
went  on  for  many  days,  and  then  finally  ceased. 


On  day,  in  memory  of  a  kindness  done,  the  Room 
of  Gratitude  was  built  right  in  the  angle  of  the 
bungalow  where  the  balloon  vine  clambered  over 
the  fragrant  honeysuckle. 

It  was  right  here  that  the  master  of  El  Nido  made 
a  great  discovery,  for  he  found  Mrs.  Brownbird' s 
new  nest  hanging  in  the  strands  of  the  baloon  vine 
with  four  fuzzy  babies  in  it. 

The  mistress  ran  out  when  she  heard  the  news 
and,  looking  up  overhead,  saw  the  nest  On  one 
side  a  few  feet  away,  with  calm,  untroubled  eyes, 
sat  Father  Brownbird,  and  on  the  opposite  side, 
exactly  the  same  distance  from  the  nest,  sat  the 
mother  bird,  watching  and  trusting. 

In  the  mouth  of  each  parent  was  a  big  fat  worm. 
In  the  midst  of  rasping  saws  and  clattering  ham- 
mers, they  sat  in  silence  waiting,  and  when  no  one 
was  watching,  they  flew  quickly  to  their  babies,  who 
also  waited,  unafraid,  with  wide  open  mouths  for 
their  meal.  The  man  who  was  building  the  new 
room  did  not  understand  little  birds  very  well.  He 
had  always  considered  himself  too  busy  a  man  to 
notice  them,  so  he  emphatically  remarked  that  that 
nest  would  have  to  come  down  before  he  could  put 
on  the  roof. 

The  little  mistress  of  El  Nido  pleaded  that  the 
little  home  was  not  to  be  disturbed  until  the  babies 
were  ready  to  fly,  but  the  man  was  more  firm  than 
ever.  He  said,  "Would  you  stop  a  building  for  the 
sake  of  a  bird's  nest?"  So  much  of  the  balloon 
vine  had  been  torn  away  that  there  now  remained 
only  two  slender  strands  to  hold  the  nest  with  the 
four  fuzzy  babies  in  it. 

Always  at  their  post,  she  beheld  Father  and 
Mother  Brownbird  watching  and  trusting.  Each 
day,  as  she  watched  this  little  family,  she  herself 
learned  to  trust  and  not  be  afraid. 

When  the  electric  light  was  put  in  the  Room  of 
Gratitude  and  turned  on  for  the  first  time,  the  white 
bulb  was  so  close  to  the  nest  that  the  four  fuzzy 
little  creatures  woke  up  and  blinked,  then  peered 


27 


over  the  nest  and  stared  hard  at  the  light.  Yet  this 
small  family  was  not  afraid. 

The  little  mistress  was  reminded  each  day,  as  she 
gazed  at  the  swinging  nest  and  its  happy  occupants, 
of  the  Heavenly  Father's  loving  care  over  all  His 
creatures. 

At  last  a  beautiful  thought,  like  a  swift  angel, 
came  to  the  master  of  El  Nido.  Said  he  aloud: 
"I  know  what  I  can  do  to  save  that  nest;  I  can  make 
a  wooden  frame  and  hang  the  nest  to  it  and  put  it 
on  top  of  the  house  away  from  the  new  part." 

The  mistress  rejoiced  greatly,  for  had  she  not 
learned  a  beautiful  lesson  in  watching  the  birds? 
At  last  the  wooden  frame  was  made,  and  slender 
vines  holding  the  nest  were  attached  to  it. 

Then  the  frame  was  placed  high  on  the  house 
and  green  boughs  laced  over  it  to  make  it  more 
homelike  and  keep  out  the  sun's  hot  rays. 

Away  from  the  clatter  of  hammers  and  the  glare 
of  the  electric  light,  the  babies  grew  and  thrived, 
while  Mother  and  Father  Brownbird  were  always  at 
their  post  watching  and  trusting.  In  a  short  time 
another  discovery  was  made:  the  nest  was  found 
deserted  and  the  babies  had  flown. 

Whenever  the  little  mistress  of  El  Nido  saw  the 
great  glaring  headlines  in  the  newspapers  about  the 
dreadful  war,  she  was  not  the  least  bit  afraid,  for 
she  remembered  how  that  little  home  which  hung 
between  two  slender  vines  had  been  protected. 

Was  not  the  noise  of  saws  and  hammers  as  dread- 
ful a  sound  to  the  little  birds  as  the  noise  of  firearms 
would  be  to  her? 

When  the  hot  grass  fire  swept  close  to  the  brown 
bungalow,  she  remembered  and  was  not  afraid. 
Had  not  the  electric  light  been  just  as  terrifying  and 
as  large  to  them  as  any  grass  fire  could  possibly  be 
to  her? 

So  everything  remained  glad  and  happy  at  El 
Nido,  for  the  linnets  and  wild  canaries  still  bathed 
under  the  drip  of  the  faucet,  the  mocking  birds  sang, 
and  the  snipping  of  the  palm  leaves  went  on  every 
day.  It  was  no  secret,  for  somewhere  in  the  honey- 
suckle vine  Mother  Brownbird  was  building  a  new 
nest. 


MR.  COYOTE 


The  sassy  coyote  comes  along  each  night, 
And  then  he  howls  with  all  his  might. 
I  wonder  if  he  knows  how  impolite 
It  is  to  yell  that  way. 

It  does  not  seem  fair  for  him  to  keep 
A  decent  dog  from  his  beauty  sleep, 
But  when  beds  are  warm  and  slumber  is  deep, 
Then  here  comes  Mr.  Coyote. 

So  our  Happy  lets  out  a  long,  hound  bark, 
Old  Bob  is  as  swift  as  an  ocean  shark ; 
Down  the  hill  they  go  scrambling  in  the  dark 
To  attend  to  Mr.  Coyote. 

For  he  likes  to  slip  and  slide  around 
And  hide  himself  in  the  picnic  ground; 
You  can  never  place  him  by  any  sound 
Except  his  mournfu!  howl. 

But  he  is  not  here  and  he  is  not  there; 
No,  you  can't  find  Coyote  anywhere. 
He's  now  in  the  hills  and  he  loves  to  dare 
Every  dog  around  that  country. 


A  MORNING  MUSICAL 

It  was  one  of  those  wonderful,  glorious  days, 
When  birds  sang  loudly  their  hymns  of  praise, 
Then  all  grew  silent  as  if  in  amaze, 

That  I  began  to  wonder.      Maybe 
The  butcher  bird,  as  he  was  wont  to  do, 
Perched  high  on  the  wires  where  he  flew, 
Had  thrown  out  his  challenge  ('twas  nothing 
new) 

To  each  mother  bird  and  her  baby. 

I  ran  to  the  window,  looked  down  the  street, 
But  I  heard  no  sound  of  hurrying  feet; 
A  few  little  breezes,  perfumed  and  sweet, 

Drifted  down  from  the  canon  of  holly. 
I  listened  intently;  my  ear  very  soon 
Caught  the  sound  of  music,  such  a  happy  tune; 
It  seemed  like  a  dance  and  sometimes  a  croon, 

Yet  'twas  ever  bright  and  jolly. 

Oh,  it  was  not  a  violin  or  soft  guitar 

That  sung  in  our  street,  but  something  far 

Back  in  childhood  days,  just  a  fleeting  star 

I  had  known  and  loved.      Maybe 
I  was  dreaming,  so  I  listened  again 
And  I  heard  the  roar  of  a  passing  train, 
But  through  it  all  came  that  happy  refrain — 

The  tune  of  "Pretty  Baby." 

So  I  looked  once  more  down  our  quiet  street ; 
Was  ever  a  picture  to  me  more  complete? 
Now  I  could  hear  the  sound  of  pattering  feet, — 

A  little  troop  advancing. 
A  swarthy  man,  with  a  hand  organ  too, 
Grinding  out  a  tune  that  was  gay  and  new; 
And  in  a  velvet  coat  of  gold  and  blue, 

A  tiny  monkey  dancing. 


30 


A  MORNING  MUSICAL 

(Continued) 

There  was  Berta,  with  her  determined  air, 
And  dear  little  Bobby  with  flaxen  hair; 
A  busy  mother,  who  forgot  all  dull  care 

And  became  a  child  for  awhile. 
As  the  caravan  slowly  moved  up  the  street, 
It  was  just  like  a  painting,  quaint  and  sweet; 
So  I  forgot  that  my  gown  was  far  from  neat, 

And  I  never  thought  of  style. 

Then  Aunt  Sallie  came  out  with  a  glowing  face, 
The  baker  stopped  right  in  front  of  the  place; 
The  monkey  danced  on  with  abandon  and  grace 

And  picked  up  each  shining  penny. 
So  he  doffed  his  cap  and  then,  like  a  flash, 
Into  a  tiny  pocket  he  dropped  the  cash; 
Then  did  all  his  stunts,  but  it  would  not  be  rash 

To  say  that  his  friends  were  many. 

The  music  then  ceased  for  a  little  time, 
While  the  monkey  scanned  each  nickel  and  dime 
And  pennies,  too.    And  yet,  it  was  not  a  crime 

To  say  that  I  had  to  smile. 
For  the  little  birds  took  up  their  cheerful  lay, 
As  the  man  and  the  monkey  jogged  on  theirway, 
But  how  glad  were  we  all  for  that  one  brief  day 

To  be  children  for  awhile. 


31 


THE  BANK  OF  LOVE 

A  silhouette  'gainst  the  morning  sky, 

The  little  mother  stands 
High  on  the  ridge  of  the  velvet  hill, 

With  wild  flowers  in  her  hand. 
Her  face  in  a  frame  of  wind-blown  hair 

As  light  as  the  thistle-down, 
Is  all  aglow  with  a  sacred  light 

That  no  false  belief  can  drown. 

Each  Monday  morn  I  see  her  come 

O'er  the  ridge  and  down  the  trail; 
Forgotten  is  the  cotton  gown, 

The  suds  and  scrubbing  pail. 
"Good  morning,"  seems  to  fairly  shine 

From  chin  to  clear,  low  brow, 
As  her  happy  lips  then  frame  these  words : 

"I've  a  boy  in  high  school  now." 

But  what  of  the  boy  on  his  way  to  school, 

He  is  just  a  slip  of  a  lad, 
But  his  face  is  aglow  with  that  sacred  light, 

The  same  that  his  mother  had. 
He  is  planning  wonderful  things  for  her, — 

She  shall  have  the  best  in  the  land; 
When  he's  old  enough  to  own  a  home, 

Why,  nothing  will  be  too  grand. 

When  harsh  words  fell,  the  soup  was  thin, 

He  could  study  without  one  doubt ; 
"For  God  was  there,"  yes,  that  was  the  way 

He  and  mother  thought  it  out. 
So  when  the  wolf  came  snarling  round, 

And  everything  grew  black, 
They  drew  a  check  on  the  Bank  of  Love, 

And  the  enemy  darted  back. 


THE  BANK  OF  LOVE 

(Continued) 

Yes,  there  was  the  little  brother,  too; 

To  know  him  was  such  a  joy. 
He  came  at  a  time  when  there  really  seemed 

No  room  for  another  boy. 
And  yet  he  liked  to  stay  with  them; 

His  baby  ways,  you  know, 
Were  just  like  sunshine  in  that  home, 

For  he  was  mother's  beau. 

Sometimes  the  man  forgot  to  scold ; 

It  seemed  so  strange  that  he 
Should  be  afraid  of  that  sacred  light 

That  shone  in  the  faces  three. 
So  he  laid  aside  the  pipe  and  glass 

And  sought  the  bank  they  knew. 
Prosperity  and  joy  came  to  them  all 

Like  Heaven's  refreshing  dew. 


OUR  CALIFORNIA  HOME 

Snug  and  close,  high  up,  high  up 
On  the  hillock's  soft,  warm  breast, 

Is  the  little  cot  I  call  our  home, 
A  place  of  peace  and  rest. 

The  yellow  poppies  smile  and  nod, 
The  birds  sing  all  the  day; 

The  gaily  painted  butterflies 

Know  where  to  come  and  play. 

I  smell  the  breath  of  mountain  sage, 

I  can  see  a  carpet  blue, 
Where  azure  lupines  sway  and  bend 

In  the  mist  of  morning  dew. 

There  may  be  grander  homes  by  far 
Where  Love  is  an  honored  guest, 

But  we  can  always  feel  His  smile 
In  our  California  nest. 


FLOWERS  AND  CHILDREN 

High  on  a  mountain  path,  so  beaten  and  dun, 
I  found  the  fringed  gilia  laughing  in  the  sun. 
Tiny  were  the  slender  stems 

That  bore  each  dainty  bloom, — 
All  rose-pink  and  lavender 
From  Heaven's  upper  room. 

Into  the  darkest  homes,  rock-ribbed  and  scarred, 
Come  the  tiny  children  where  laughter  is  barred. 
Mortal  thoughts  are  never  theirs, 

They  blossom  all  the  while, 
And,  just  like  the  little  gilia, 
They  echo  Heaven's  smile. 


CLOUDS  IN  GRIFFITH  PARK 


My  theater  lies  in  a  pleasant  glade, 

My  box  is  a  rustic  chair; 
The  stage  is  the  ridge  of  a  mountain  high, 

Green  and  velvety  everywhere. 

And  the  dancing  girls  come  every  day 
From  the  skies  and  o'er  the  downs; 

There  is  a  swirl  of  draperies, 
The  swish  of  chiffon  gowns. 

But  there  is  no  patter  of  tiny  feet, — 
It  is  only  the  rustling  leaves; 

For  my  dancing  girls  are  but  the  clouds 
That  color  in  mystery  weaves. 

At  morn  they  don  a  soft  white  gauze, 
And  drab,  on  the  cloudy  days; 

At  sunset  they  swirl  in  rosy  pink, 
With  lavender  tints  and  grays. 

At  night  the  curtain  rolls  slowly  down, 
The  stage  is  so  dark  and  still; 

My  dancing  girls  in  their  chiffon  gowns 
Have  flown  beyond  the  hill. 


35 


CHILDHOOD  MEMORIES 


When  we  were  small  and  lived  on  the  farm, 
We  children  sometimes  felt  a  deep  alarm 
At  noon,  when,  with  clatter  and  din, 
The  hired  men  all  came  filing  in. 
With  one  called  Fred  we  were  not  pleased, 
His  food  slipped  down  as  if  it  were  greased; 
A  nice  piece  of  pie  disappeared  in  two  bites. 
The  shame  of  it  all,  most  dreadful  of  sights! 


So  there  we  all  stood  in  a  solemn  row; 
In  those  days  it  wasn't  polite,  you  know, 
For  children  to  eat  at  the  very  first  table, 
But  we  must  just  wait  until  all  were  able 
To  rise  from  their  chairs,  and  put  on  their  hats: 
If  those  men  only  knew  that  twenty-two  cats 
Were  patiently  waiting  outside  that  day, 
I  think  they  surely  would  have  hurried  away. 


37 


CHILDHOOD  MEMORIES 

(Continued) 

Old  Blarney  was  there  with  every  relation, 
For  Blarney  believed  in  multiplication. 
When  my  Daddy  muttered,  under  his  breath, 
" About  those  cats  going  down  to  their  death,'* 
Old  Blarney  just  grinned  and  looked  very  wise, 
And  in  course  of  time  brought  a  grand  surprise. 
She  was  fine  in  subtracting  the  mice  and  rats, 
But  nothing  stingy  when  it  came  to  cats. 

Where  they  all  came  from,  no  one  could  tell — 
White,  black,  yellow  and  tortoise-shell — 
But  we  loved  them  all.      On  our  cellar  door 
There  was  always  room  for  just  one  more. 
Dear  little  Wha-ya  we  loved  best  of  all, 
She  could  play  with  a  string,  a  top  or  a  ball; 
Her  fur  was  not  red,  neither  yellow  nor  pink, 
But  a  combination  of  all  colors,  I  think. 

When  dinner  was  over,  the  hired  man  left 
The  table  of  goodies,  so  sadly  bereft. 
We  children  saved  all  the  crumbs  and  the  fats 
In  order  to  feed  those  dear,  patient  cats. 
Then  our  mother  brought  in  a  big,  juicy  pie 
That  was  hidden  away  in  a  cupboard  nearby. 
Little  Sister  spoke  up,  "How  can  we  be  pore 
When   we've   twenty-two   cats   on   the   cellar 
door?" 


A  SONG 

There  comes  a  singing  in  my  heart 

At  early  dawn,  yes  all  the  day; 
A  song  so  far  from  earth  apart, 

It  seems  to  drive  dark  fears  away. 
And  singing,  singing  in  my  dreams, 

Although  the  words  I  scarcely  hear, 
The  import  of  this  message  seems 

To  tell  me  now,  that  good  is  here. 

I  look  out  on  the  slender  moon, 

I  watch  the  filmy  clouds  go  by; 
I  know  these  roses  tell  of  June, 

I  know  my  lips  will  cease  to  sigh. 
For  comes  this  singing  in  my  heart, 

And  Oh,  'tis  wondrous  sweet  to  me 
To  know  that  sorrow  hath  no  part, 

That  only  Good  can  come  to  me. 

MILLINERY 

The  spotted  deer  looks  very  queer, 
Decked  in  his  winter  bonnet — 

A  pair  of  heavy,  branching  horns, 
Not  a  speck  of  trimming  on  it. 

And  so,  you  see,  we  don't  agree 
When  it  comes  to  hats  and  collars ; 

He  would  not  wear  the  kind  I  wear — 
No!  not  for  a  hundred  dollars. 

When  spring  is  near,  the  spotted  deer 
Lays  off  his  rusty  bonnet; 

A  new  one  grows  by  Easter-tide 
With  some  charming  velvet  on  it. 


39 


THE  WHITE  DEER 


The  wind  fairly  shrieked  and  whistled 

Among  the  great  oak  trees, 
So  I  closed  the  windows  quickly 

To  shut  out  the  boisterous  breeze. 

When  the  rain  came  down  in  torrents, 

A  pretty  scene  caught  my  eye; 
There  in  the  field  lay  the  little  white  deer 

With  faces  turned  toward  the  sky. 

Yet  in  city  homes  the  doors  were  closed, 

Fires  burned  warm  and  bright, 
For  folks  were  warned  to  stay  inside 

For  fear  of  germs  that  night. 

Or  wear  a  clumsy  cheesecloth  mask, 

If  they  must  venture  out; 
This  alone  would  frighten  germs 

If  they  were  round  about. 

The  big  live  oaks  and  comfy  pens 

Ne'er  tempted  the  little  deer. 
They  lay  right  out  in  the  open  field 

With  never  a  thought  of  fear. 

The  rain  washed  each  coat  so  white  and  clean, 
With  strokes  both  fierce  and  bold; 

Yet  we  never  heard  that  the  little  deer 
Caught  a  single  germ  or  cold. 


40 


FRIENDS 


A  rustle  in  the  dry  oak  leaves, — 

I  turn  and  there  I  see 
A  robin  gay,  whose  clear,  bright  eyes 

Are  looking  straight  at  me. 
Upon  his  breast  he  wears  a  vest 

Of  rich  and  burnished  hue; 
A  stranger,  yet  I  know  that  he 

Is  my  friend,  through  and  through. 

I  take  a  step,  and  so  does  he, 

And  then  we  stare  awhile. 
As  I  go  down  the  woodland  path, 

He  hops  in  robin  style. 
He  meets  his  mate  just  at  the  gate, 

Where  a  faucet  drips  so  cool; 
They  take  a  bath  and  chirp  good-bye, 

When  I  start  to  Sunday  School. 


41 


SOME  INTERESTING  FRIENDS 


Skippy,  a  Fox  Terrier 

Who  is  this  that  darts  about, 
Such  a  lively,  merry  scout, 
Putting  everything  to  route? 

Why,  that's  Skippy. 
When  autos  gay  go  whizzing  by, 
She  never  seems  to  bat  an  eye; 
You  can't  hate  her  if  you  try, 

For  you  do  not  mind  her  jokes. 

Happy,  a  Bloodhound 

An  art  collector,  if  you  please, — 
In  my  daisy  bed  he  takes  his  ease, 
Hides  his  loot  and  hunts  for  fleas, — 

That's  dear  Happy. 

He  brought  home  Danny's  bathing  suit, 
Elizabeth's  slipper  and  Billy's  boot; 
Some  other  things  found  on  the  route, 

Left  by  forgetful  folks. 

Mike,  a  Bird  Dog 

Who  is  this  coming  down  the  pike, 
Whom  boys  respect  and  girls  all  like? 
Why,  sure,  it  is  our  dear  old  Mike, 

That  everybody  loves. 
He  comes  each  day  and  likes  to  plan 
To  peep  into  your  garbage  can, 
But  should  he  call  on  Betty  or  Dan, 

They  need  not  wear  their  gloves. 


42 


SOME  INTERESTING  FRIENDS 

(Continued) 


A  Medley 

There  are  other  dogs  upon  the  Drive 
Just  as  smart  and  as  much  alive; 
It  is  only  fair  if  I  should  strive 

Their  fame  and  deeds  to  recall. 
When  Fritzy  bathes,  he  is  white  as  snow; 
Poncho  is  black  as  any  crow; 
Scotty  and  Laddie,  you  all  well  know. 

There,  now!     I  have  told  you  all. 


43 


LETTER  TO  JOSEPHINE 


Los  Angeles,  Cal. 

Date,  Springtime. 

To  Josephine,  my  Little  Friend: 

Today  Mt.  Washington  is  smiling,  but  the  little 
brown  birds  are  hopping  about  in  great  glee  and, 
oh,  they  are  so  busy! 

For  many  days  the  tears  have  been  running  down 
the  cheeks  of  Mt.  Washington,  yet  sometimes  when 
the  sun  peeped  from  behind  the  clouds,  she  forgot 
her  tears  and  smiled;  then  all  the  little  birds  broke 
forth  in  song. 

The  leaves  of  the  trees  seemed  to  be  sprinkled 
with  diamond  dewdrops,  and  we  were  so  glad  to 
feel  once  more  the  warm  sunlight,  but  I  soon  learned 
that  when  Mt.  Washington  put  on  her  misty  nose 
veil  more  tears  were  to  follow. 

Now  where  do  you  suppose  that  Mt.  Washing- 
ton hides  all  her  tears  after  the  wild  flowers  have 
quenched  their  thirst  and  been  satisfied?  Why,  in 
her  great  tear  bottle,  the  Arroyo,  of  course. 

It  is  a  modest  little  stream  that  flows  back  of 
Sycamore  Grove.  As  it  trickles  o'er  the  white 
stones  and  clumps  of  green  water-cress,  it  gives  no 
hint  that  some  day  it  may  surprise  us  by  acting  like 
a  half-grown,  turbulent  child,  who  defies  all  re- 
straint. It  was  right  here,  one  day  when  the  Arroyo 
was  in  a  placid  mood,  that  we  found  the  dear  little 
hop-toad,  which  was  to  take  the  wonderful  journey 
East  on  the  train,  and  be  your  traveling  companion. 

Carefully  a  little  girl  with  yellow  curls  carried  him 
home  and  placed  him  in  comfortable  quarters  in  the 
bathroom.  Now  whether  he  longed  for  the  trick- 
ling waters  of  the  Arroyo  or  whether  the  maid  dis- 


liked  his  company  in  the  well  ordered  home,  I  do 
not  know,  but  in  some  way,  just  before  a  little  girl 
started  on  the  long  journey  to  Washington,  D.  C.f 
the  little  hop-toad  mysteriously  disappeared.  Now 
wasn't  Divine  Love  kind  to  give  the  little  California 
toad  his  freedom? 

He  was  used  to  the  sunshine  and  soft  rains  of  Los 
Angeles  and  knew  nothing  of  steam-heated  apart- 
ments; besides,  he  had  spent  all  of  his  baby  days  in 
the  park,  where  he  and  his  relatives  hopped  about 
joyfully  in  the  broad  bed  of  red  salvias  which  bor- 
dered the  walk. 

Not  far  from  this  was  the  dear  little  lily  pond, 
and  farther  on  the  beautiful  Arroyo,  which  held  the 
sacred  tears  that  the  foothills  shed;  but  remember, 
these  were  not  bitter  tears,  but  they  were  soft  and 
gentle  and  formed  such  lovely  frog  ponds.  Tiny 
fish  darted  in  and  out  around  the  rocks  and  hid 
themselves  under  the  clumps  of  green  water-cress, 

Now  and  then  a  big  bullfrog  has  been  brave 
enough  to  venture  forth  with  a  deep  bass  solo,  but 
is  he  any  happier  than  the  little  hop-toads? 

They  know  that  spring  is  coming  to  Los  Angeles, 
then  old  Sycamore  Grove  will  don  her  beautiful  cos- 
tume of  marvelous  color.  The  big  sycamores  will 
hurry  to  get  into  their  green  gowns,  which  at  first 
are  fernlike  in  appearance.  The  swamp  magnolia 
will  then  pin  on  her  large  ornaments  of  beautiful 
flowers.  I  think  it  rather  strange  that  she  should 
prefer  to  put  on  her  jewels  before  her  nice,  green 
dress  appears.  After  all  this  display,  come  the 
snowballs,  lilacs  and  bridal-wreath,  and,  last  of  all, 
the  red  salvias  which  the  little  hop-toads  love  so 
well. 

Mt.  Washington  also  is  putting  on  her  new  spring 
clothes.  One  of  her  long  arms  will  be  covered  with 
blue  lupines,  dotted  here  and  there  with  her  choicest 
jewels  of  gold,  the  wild  helianthus.  The  dainty 
owl's  clover  and  mission  bells  will  appear,  and  even 
now  the  golden  cups  of  the  California  poppies  are 
modestly  peeping  out  from  their  gray-green  foliage. 


The  brodiaea,  or  blue-bells,  as  the  little  children 
love  to  call  them,  will  soon  be  nodding  in  the  bil- 
lowy fringes  of  the  wild  oats  with  which  Mt.  Wash- 
ington loves  to  trim  her  spring  gown.  Later  on  she 
will  decorate  it  with  dainty  butterfly  bows  of  the 
Mariposa  lilies. 

All  of  her  slipper  bows  are  washed  clean  and 
bright  with  her  tears.  You  know  Mt.  Washington's 
slipper  bows  are  the  beautiful  homes  nestling  at  her 
feet.  My  little  brown  bungalow  is  such  a  tiny  bow, 
but  the  little  wild  birds  know  just  where  to  find  it. 

A  fat  brown  bird  sits  on  a  perch  every  morning, 
just  opposite  my  bedroom  window,  and  watches  me 
with  sharp,  bright  eyes,  and  I  always  feel  that  she  is 
studying  every  move  that  I  make.  Sometimes  I  sing 
to  her  and  she  listens  politely  and,  when  the  song  is 
finished,  flies  away. 

I  could  tell  you  more  about  the  little  wild  visitors 
and  the  happy  children  who  find  their  way  to  Mt. 
Washington's  tiny  slipper  bow,  but  that  must  all 
come  in  another  letter,  because  if  I  should  stop  to 
tell  you  about  Father  Roadrunner,  and  Mr.  Blue  jay, 
Susie  Cottontail  and  the  dear  little  humming  bird, 
it  would  take  too  long;  so  wishing  a  little  girl  a 
happy  good-night,  I  remain  as  ever, 

Your  loving  friend, 

SARAH  SIMONS  REESE. 


46 


HELEN 

I  met  a  little  desert  maid, 

Whose  deep,  clear  eyes,  so  unafraid, 
Were  like  twin  wells,  of  azure  hue, 

Reflecting  thought  both  pure  and  true. 

We  walked  together,  she  and  I, 

Along  the  stretch  of  gray -white  sand; 

We  spoke  few  words,  but  I  could  feel 
The  pressure  of  her  tiny  hand. 

This  little  maid  in  gingham  gown 
I  had  only  known  a  few  short  days, 

But  when  I  looked  into  those  eyes 

And  met  her  earnest,  searching  gaze, 

It  seemed  to  me  that  we  had  been 
Fast  friends  for  many  years; 

Just  one  in  step  and  one  in  thought, 
But  never,  never  one  in  tears. 

Some  may  call  her  home  "the  Desert," 

Yet  I  hardly  deem  it  fair; 
How  can  it  be  a  desert  when 

Love  and  Helen  are  still  there? 


47 


THE  GARBAGE  MAN 

Oh!  the  garbage  man  is  a  busy  man, 
And  he  rides  with  lordly  mien 

Just  twice  a  week  on  our  quiet  street 
In  a  clumsy  old  machine. 

My  garbage  can  was  not  so  old 
That  it  should  cause  offense. 

The  worthy  man  went  sailing  by 
And  left  it  full  of  dents. 


48 


THE  GARBAGE  MAN 

(Continued) 

He  sent  it  rolling  down  the  street, — 

Perhaps  it  liked  to  roam; 
The  lid  was  flat;  I  always  knew 

That  this  part  would  stay  at  home. 

I  would  have  liked  a  fine  new  can, 
But  thought,  "Oh,  what's  the  use!*' 

For  when  that  man  went  sailing  by 
'Twould  share  the  same  abuse. 

I  tried  to  like  that  garbage  man, 
And  put  my  fears  to  rout. 

The  can  was  given  another  twist, 
Then  the  bottom  soon  fell  out. 

So  then  I  had  to  go  to  town 
And  buy  a  brand  new  can; 

I  meant  to  choose  a  goodly  one, 
But  I  thought  of  the  garbage  man. 

So  I  bought  a  little  dinky  one 
And  paid  my  sixty  cents; 

This  modest  sum  I  would  not  mind 
If  the  can  went  full  of  dents. 

When  next  the  garbage  man  was  due, 
I  gazed  from  a  window  high 

To  see  just  how  he'd  treat  that  can 
When  he  went  sailing  by. 

To  my  surprise,  the  man  was  kind. 

Oh,  yes!  I  know  I'm  sane. 
Just  like  a  babe  he  lifted  it, 

Then  he  set  it  down  again. 

You  who  rail  at  the  garbage  man, 
And  think  to  vent  your  spite, 

Discard  the  old,  buy  a  better  one, 
Then  you  will  be  treated  right. 


A  CLASSIC 


Dan  Damon  was  a  goodly  dog, 

A  dog  of  reddish  hue, 
So  long  of  limb,  so  long  of  hair, 

And  nothing  much  to  do. 
Upon  my  kitchen  shelf  there  lay 

A  useless,  idle  cake; 
A  bar  of  dog  soap,  dark  and  brown, 

I  kept  for  old  times  sake. 

I  had  a  little  dachshund  once, 

She  of  the  sausage  type; 
I  bought  the  dog  soap  just  for  her, 

But  the  time  was  never  ripe 
To  give  a  bath,  'twas  extra  work, 

I  put  it  off  each  day; 
The  dog  soap  lay  a  useless  thing, 

Then  Fraulein  ran  away. 

I  hunted  high,  I  hunted  low, 

And  hoped  for  her  return, 
But  every  time  that  shelf  I'd  dust, 

A  lesson  I  would  learn. 
That  bar  of  soap  was  in  my  way; 

The  dachshund  ne'er  came  back. 
To  whom  could  I  ever  give  that  cake 

Wrapped  in  a  paper  sack? 


50 


A  CLASSIC 

(Continued) 

But  when  Dan  Damon  came  along, 

I  viewed  his  lengthy  hair. 
How  many  baths  that  dog  would  need ; 

The  dog  soap  should  go  there. 
'Twas  near  ing  fast,  the  Christmas-tide ; 

That  bar  of  soap  I'd  send, 
Wrapped  up  in  tissue,  nice  and  fine, 

Tied  with  ribbon  at  each  end. 

And  now  I  dust  my  shelf  in  peace, 

With  nothing  in  the  way. 
Dan  Damon's  mistress,  she  can  use 

That  dog  soap  every  day. 


51 


TIPPETY  ANNE 


Tippety  Anne  was  a  puppy  dog, 

So  white,  so  round  and  fat; 
Just  for  fun  she  dug  up  the  ferns. 

Now  what  do  you  think  of  that? 

Helen  and  Sister  were  invited  out 

To  a  party  grand  and  fine; 
So  Mother  washed  all  the  lingerie 

And  hung  it  out  on  the  line. 

Yes,  Mother  rubbed  and  scrubbed  the  clothes 
While  the  children  were  at  play, 

So  then  she  put  on  her  Sunday  hat 
And  went  out  to  spend  the  day. 

The  line  was  slack  and  the  prop  was  weak; 

The  lingerie  swung  in  the  breeze. 
(They  were  white  as  snow,  all  trimmed  in  lace 

And  tucked  clear  up  to  the  knees.) 

Tippety  Anne  seemed  fast  asleep, — 
'Twas  just  a  pretense,  you  know; 

She  knew  that  prop  would  never  stand 
If  only  the  wind  would  blow. 


52 


TIPPETY  ANNE 

(Continued) 

She  yawned  awhile  and  thought  it  out, 

For  Anne  was  no  idle  pup. 
When  left  alone  'twould  be  such  sport 

To  chew  that  laundry  up. 

Our  Tippety  Anne  was  wide  awake, 

Then  how  her  eyes  did  shine! 
She  threw  herself  'gainst  the  wiggly  prop 

And  down  came  the  slack  clothesline. 

A  glorious  time  that  puppy  had, 

'Twould  make  poor  Mother  scringe; 

All  that  was  left  of  the  lingerie 

Were  waistbands  trimmed  with  fringe. 

When  Helen  and  Sister  came  home  that  day, 
You  should  see  each  upturned  nose; 

For  Mother  has  to  dress  them  now 
Just  in  citizen's  plain  clothes. 


THE  DAISY  CARPET 


Oh,  can  it  be  that  you  do  not  know 
The  spot  where  yellow  daisies  grow 
Like  a  velvet  carpet,  soft  and  fine, 
'Neath  pepper  trees  and  somber  pine? 
Where  long,  cool  shadows  lay  between 
Like  ribbon  bands  of  tender  green, — 
Lavender  laces,  spotches  of  pink, 
Fuzzy  cream-cups  that  nod  and  blink, 
Are  found  in  the  daisy  carpet. 

'Tis  a  place  where  children  love  to  play, 
Where  mothers  forget  to  say  "Nay,  nay!" 
If  the  carpet  wears  out,  who  can  fear? 
It  is  sure  to  grow  in  another  year. 
All  forget  that  queer  word  "Don't," 
You  never  hear  one  cross  "I  won't." 
So  every  one  with  joy  just  thrills, — 
If  sandwiches  fall  and  lemonade  spills, 
It  can't  hurt  the  daisy  carpet. 


54 


TAPESTRY 


I  saw  some  rare  old  tapestry, 

Very  warm  and  rich  in  hue, 
Where  silver  threads  in  riot  ran, 

Laughed  and  peeped  right  through. 
But  in  that  quiet  tapestry 

Gleamed  a  golden  thread,  and  then 
It  sunk  down  deep  into  the  woof, 

Only  to  come  back  again. 

Our  lives  are  like  a  tapestry, 

That  others  see  us  live; 
The  silver  threads  are  happy  smiles, 

It  costs  not  much  to  give. 
Golden  threads  are  loving  thoughts 

That  shine  and  sink  in  deep,  but  when 
We  least  suspect,  with  added  love, 

They  come  stealing  back  again. 


THE  SOLDIER 


Far  back  from  the  dusty  roadside, 

Guarded  by  tall,  dark  pines, 
Stands  an  old  deserted  mansion 

Half  hidden  with  tangled  vines. 
The  weeds  about  its  threshold, 

That  stand  so  grim  and  tall, 
Have  long  since  choked  the  roses 

Which  bloomed  beside  the  wall. 

There  in  the  lonely  silence 

Never  a  sound  is  heard, 
Save  the  mournful  sway  of  pine  boughs 

Or  the  voice  of  a  far  off  bird. 
Long  years  ago  when  Summer 

Her  fairest  flowers  had  won, 
And  when  the  ripening  wheat  fields 

Waved  in  the  wind  and  sun, 

When  the  briar  rose  by  the  window 
Breathed  fragrance  in  the  air, 

And  the  hollyhock  in  the  garden 
Smiled  at  the  skies  so  fair, — 

A  little  girl  sat  in  silence 

Watching  the  butterflies  play, 

And  heard  the  drone  of  the  honey  bees 
As  they  bore  their  sweets  away. 

She  thought  of  the  brave  soldiers, 

And  wished  that  she  might  be 
Some  use  to  her  own  dear  country 

And  set  its  prisoners  free. 
But  she  could  not  go  to  battle 

With  arms  of  tempered  steel; 
Her  brothers,  they  were  chosen 

With  the  enemy  to  deal. 


56 


THE  SOLDIER 

(Continued) 

And  as  she  sat  there  thinking, 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
Might  be  as  brave  a  soldier 

As  any  man  could  ever  be. 
For  she  knew  that  steel  and  iron 

Could  not  slay  the  unkind  thought, 
Or  chase  away  the  hateful  words 

That  fear  and  envy  brought. 

So  she  caught  up  a  burnished  weapon, 

The  priceless  blade  of  Love, 
And  strode  forward  into  battle 

With  a  shield  from  God  above. 
Then  old  Anger,  grim  and  sullen, 

Faded  away  from  view, 
As  Fear  and  lank  Discouragement 

Pale  and  terror  stricken  grew. 

For  the  blade  of  Love  was  flashing 

As  the  soldier  held  it  high, 
And  the  foes  grew  faint  and  fearful 

When  the  burnished  Shield  was  nigh. 
Those  tiny  seeds  of  criticism, 

Now  failed  to  come  to  birth; 
Old  thoughts  both  sharp  and  bitter, 

Found  a  grave  in  dusty  earth. 

Through  many  years,  the  soldier 

Toiled  on  from  day  to  day; 
Until  little  foes  were  vanquished, 

And  great  ones  fled  away. 
And  thus,  she  helped  her  country 

With  no  thought  of  fame  or  pelf, 
With  the  blade  of  Love  she  conquered 

That  old  enemy  called  Self. 


57 


CONTENTS 


Page 

Bank  of  Love  32 

Bean  Blowers        -  1 4 

Butterball      -  22 

California  Thrush  8 

Childhood  Memories  36 

Classic  50 

Clouds  in  Griffith  Park  -                                            35 

Coyote,  Mr.  29 

Daisy  Carpet  54 

El  Nido  24 

Friends  41 

Flowers  and  Children  -         34 

Garbage  Man        -  48 

Green  Parrot        -  17 

Griffith  Park  7 

Helen     -  47 
Humming  Bird     - 

Jimmy  Skunk        -  21 

Letter  to  Josephine  - 

Lullaby  19 

Millinery 
Morning  Musical 


CONTENTS 

(Continued) 

Page 

Nemophila    -  13 

New   Moon  1  3 

New   Umpire  20 

Our  California  Home  34 

Soldier  56 

Some  Interesting  Friends  42 

Somewhere  in  California     -  1 2 

Song  39 

Tapestry  5  5 

Tippety  Anne       -  52 

West  Wind  and  the  Oak     -  17 

White  Deer  -  40 

Wild  Flowers  in  Griffith  Park     -  18 


F«F»ej»»    or    THE 
AU  ER-PETERMAN     OOMRAIMV 

t-os    AisiQeues.  OAUIF^OKNIA 


JC   14426 


416787 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


